“This is fine,” I said out loud to no one. “This is totally fine.”
It wasn’t fine. It was the opposite of fine.
I’d left Mrs. Kowalski’s house twenty minutes ago, feeling pretty good about myself. The sweet elderly woman had been thrilled to see me, had insisted I stay for tea and homemade cookies that were still warm from the oven, and had told me approximately forty-seven stories about her grandchildren while I’d checked her blood pressure and made sure she was taking her medications properly.
She’d also sent me home with a bag of apples from her tree when I mentioned my brother loved apple pies.
Then, still a good ten miles from town, I’d felt the jerk on my steering wheel and heard the sound. That terrible flapping, thumping sound that every driver knows means nothing good. The sound that makes your stomach drop and your day instantly worse.
A flat tire.
I’d managed to pull over to a relatively wide spot on the shoulder—and I was using the term shoulder generously. The kind of spot where if you weren’t careful, your car could slide right off the edge and tumble down through the pine trees, and they’d find you sometime next spring when the snow melted.
Cheerful thought.
Now I was sitting on the hood of my hatchback, legs swinging, eating one of the apples because stress eating seemed like the appropriate response to this situation. The apple was perfect—crisp and sweet, probably the best thing about my entire day. I took another bite and stared at my phone, which was displaying exactly zero bars of service.
Not that I could call anyone. My mother was working, and my brother didn’t own a car. As always, I knew I’d have to figure this out for myself.
I’d already inspected the damage—the front driver’s side tire was flat as a pancake like I’d hit rock, maybe, or one of the many potholes that dotted this road like landmines designed specifically to destroy the suspension of anyone foolish enough to drive up here in a vehicle that wasn’t a tank.
I’d also already checked the trunk and confirmed what I’d been afraid I’d find. No spare tire. Just a jack and a tire iron, sitting there uselessly, mocking me with their presence. We’d had to use my spare tire on the flat my mother had gotten a few months ago. Getting another one had been pushed to the back of my to do list—and my budget.
I just wished I could forget other things as easily.
Like the grumpy mountain man with abs.
I’d been having a difficult time accomplishing that.
It had been two days since Tucker had come to the clinic. Two days since I’d felt the way he’d gone completely still when I’d placed the ice pack on his head. Two days since he’d pulledme between his legs and all my girlie parts had lit up like a Christmas tree and the fourth of July rolled into one spectacular holiday. Two days since he’d wrapped his hand around my wrist and looked at me with those dark eyes that saw way too much.
I took another bite of apple and swung my legs harder, the heels of my sneakers thumping rhythmically against the side of my car. This was fine. I was fine. I’d figure this out. I was a competent adult who could handle a flat tire on a mountain road with no cell service and no spare.
Probably.
Maybe.
My options were limited and none of them were great. I could wait here and hope someone drove by, but this road wasn’t exactly a highway. I could walk back to town. I’d probably be home before my mother got off work. And if I wasn’t, she’d come looking for me. After she called out the national guard.
Or I could walk up the mountain instead of down.
No, I reminded myself. That would be the highlight of foolishness.
Wouldn’t it?
To hike to Tucker’s cabin. A place that was completely out of the way. And certainly not the nearest house.
Nope, the smart thing would be to simply hike back to Mrs. Kowalski’s house and call a tow.
Not contemplate showing up on the doorstep of an emotionally unavailable man simply because he had a six pack of abs.
I tried to remind myself of every lesson I’d learned the hard way—men do not like curves. They tolerated them sometimes, appreciated them in the dark where no one could see. But they didn’t want them. Not in the way romance novels and movies promised. Not in the way I’d stupidly hoped for when I was younger and naive.
And they especially didn’t like curvy women who talked back.
Except he hadn’t seemed to mind my pushiness at the clinic. If anything, he’d seemed... interested. The way he’d looked at me when I’d had my hands on his shoulders. The way his fingers had curled around my wrist, firm but gentle, like he was testing whether I’d pull away.
My brain replayed every moment on a loop, analyzing every word, every look, every breath. Trying to figure out if I’d imagined the tension crackling between us.
